


Softly

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: The Homecoming [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Naked Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And John’s eyes never leave his, and he isn’t looking away, not for anything, because John is penning whole love letters with his eyes as he pushes Sherlock’s shirt from his shoulders.  He is painting pictures, writing small histories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [londoninjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/londoninjune/gifts).



> This story is part of "The Homecoming" series, and is a direct continuation of "Inception". It won't make a lot of sense, especially at the beginning, if you haven't read "Inception" first.
> 
> Other stories in this series include:
> 
> 1) Enough  
> 2) Fracture  
> 3) Unexpected  
> 4) Inception
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who is reading this series. I very much appreciate your support and comments. Your response has been amazing.

Sherlock blinks.

“But you—aren’t you tired?”

“No.”

“But you…”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not so knackered that I’d pass up the chance to kiss you properly.”

“Oh.”

John gets to his feet.  “Come on.  Let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock does as bade.  He wordlessly clicks off the television, turns out the lamp by the couch, and follows John down the dark hallway to the bedroom where John has left a single lamp on after his shower. 

John waits for him to enter, and then shuts the door behind him.  He sits down the edge of the bed and smiles.  “Come here.”

Sherlock does.

“John, you don’t have to…”

“Maybe I want to.”

“But if you…”

“I told you—I’m fine.”

Sherlock nods.  He goes and sits beside John on the edge of the bed.  He stares down at his hands.

John reaches across and takes one in his, meshes their fingers.  

Sherlock feels a fresh surge of affection and an almost overwhelming need to pull him closer, to feel the planes of John’s body fit with his again, their breath synchronize, their hearts beat together.

“You still nervous about this, even after—after all that?”  John jerks his head in the direction of the sitting room.

Sherlock steals a quick look at John, before dropping his eyes to the floor again.  “Not nervous.”

“Then what?”  John’s voice is soft, but he sounds concerned, and Sherlock doesn’t want that, doesn’t want John to feel as though he has to worry about him.  He’s not a child.  He’s not made of spun glass.  And he wants this, all of this, whatever that might entail.

He shakes his head.  “I don’t know.”  He finally manages to look up and meet John’s eyes.  Yes worried.  John is definitely worried.  “Really John.  I don’t know.”

John nods.  Some of the worry drains from his eyes.  “Okay.”  John’s thumb rubs along the back of his hand.  It’s pleasant, comforting.  “Listen, if that was too much before, we’ll just back up.  We’ll start over, start slower.”

“It was—it was fine.”

“Just fine?”

“No.  Good.  It was good.  I—I didn’t mind.  I wanted it.”

“Okay.”  John is quiet for a few minutes.  His thumb continues to trace lazy trails over the top of Sherlock’s hand, and then it stops.  “Listen, what I asked you before: if you’d done that before tonight…”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because I don’t want to rush you.”

“I’m capable of saying ‘no’, John.”

“Well, good.  That’s good.  I just…  Okay.  It—it doesn’t matter then.  If it doesn’t matter to you then it doesn’t matter to me.”

Sherlock glances briefly at John.  “Fine.  Good.  Thank-you.”

“That _was_ a first for me.”

Sherlock’s eyes snap to John, who smiles briefly, crookedly.

“It was?”

“Mmm.”  

Sherlock opens his mouth, but then shuts it again after a moment in which he can think of nothing to say.  John meets his eyes and smiles.  “That surprises you?”

Sherlock opens his mouth again.  Still nothing.

“With a bloke, Sherlock.  First time.”

Sherlock’s mouth finally manages to form a small ‘oh’, but no sound escapes.  But then…  Wait.  What?  

“Sholto,” his brain spits out.

John cocks a brow in surprise, and then frowns.  “James?  What?  No—oh no.”

“No?”

“No.  It wasn’t like that, not…”

“It wasn’t?”  And that came out sounding far more incredulous than could probably be deemed considerate.

John’s mouth clamps shut.  A muscle in his jaw twitches.  His cheeks color a little.  “Maybe.  I—maybe.  But, nothing happened.  He was my superior officer.  It wouldn’t have been appropriate.  Besides, I don’t think he…”

“Yes he did.”

“Sorry?”

“You were going to say that you don’t think he felt anything for you.  Yes he did.”

“He did?”  Sherlock doesn’t like the sound of revelation and soft affection he hears in John’s voice.

“Maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“Probably.  I might be wrong.”

John smiles and looks away.  “It doesn’t matter.  That’s water under the bridge.”

“Good.”  Sherlock picks at a loose thread on the coverlet between his legs.  He sees John turn to look at him.

“Jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

John is smiling.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, lets it out again.  “In answer to your other question—no.”

“What?”

“What you asked before.  If I had ever—before now.  So, ‘ _no_ ’.  That answer is ‘ _no_ ’.”

“Okay.”  John squeezes his hand.  “New ground for both of us, then I guess.”

Sherlock turns to look at him.  John is looking down at their clasped hands.  He looks open, unconcerned.  It doesn’t matter to him, it seems.

“This doesn’t happen to me.”

John looks up.  “What doesn’t?”

“This,”  He nods toward John.  John should know what he means.  John should see.  But John never sees for some reason.  He looks confused.  “Us,” Sherlock clarifies.

“Relationships?”

“No.”

John’s brows lift in expectation.  He waits for clarification.

“Attraction, John, and—and…”

“Sentiment?”

“No.  Not—no.”  So frustrating.

John’s brows are knit, now.  And there is no way of stopping this.  The whole conversation has gotten wildly away from him.  Too much talking and things are always bound to go wrong—swiftly, too. 

“I don’t—I’ve never…”  He huffs in frustration, and John’s thumb slides across the top of his hand.  “I don’t fall in love, John.  To be honest, I didn’t think I was capable.  But then you…”  He stops.  John’s whole face has changed.

 _Oh.   Not good.  Too soon?  Not reciprocated?  Simple sexual experimentation on John’s part?  Casual?  Something—something he should have seen but hasn’t._  

“What?”  The question comes out slightly breathy, tremulous.  John looks utterly stricken.  

_Wrong.  Wrong.  Wrong.  Should have stopped talking.  Shouldn’t have started at all!_

Sherlock has no idea what to say.  It’s out there now, hanging between them.  John heard him.  The look on his face is clear enough indication of that.  He doesn’t need it repeated.  So, why is he asking?

“What did you say?”

“You heard me well enough, John.  Why make me repeat it?”  Sherlock feels exhausted all of a sudden, and a little ill.  

This is why he doesn’t do conversation.  This is exactly why he doesn’t do relationships.  But, it’s not as though John has ever given him any choice.  John’s—well, John’s _Johnness_ is quite simply futile to resist.  He’s no idea why anyone would even try it.  He did try for those few months that first year when John seemed determined to drag every woman within a 50 km radius into his life and sometimes even their front sitting room, but all to no avail.  John is an irresistible force.

“Say it again.”  This barely a whisper.

Sherlock frowns.  “Why?”

“Sherlock, just…”

Sherlock sighs, pulls his hand from John’s and rakes it through his hair.  He folds his hands in his lap.  Embarrassing—in the extreme.  Why John is putting him through this, he has no idea.  It seems particularly cruel for John.  Why make him repeat it?  Why not just redirect, or let him down gently?

“I said—I don’t fall in love.  But you’ve proven to be my exception, it seems.”

John doesn’t say anything.  Sherlock hears him swallow, hears him breathing very even, very quiet.  Nothing happens.  They just sit there.  Sherlock can’t bring himself to look up and John continues to remain mute.  Awkward. 

Finally—  “Can you look at me.”

He does.  And John—his face still the same, eyes slightly red, like maybe he has been so unsettled by this revelation that he is having trouble holding back tears. 

“You love me?”  this comes out slightly choked, as though he can barely get the words out at all.

“As I said.”

“In love with me?”  Whispered, curious, disbelieving.

Sherlock shakes his head and looks away, because he can’t bear the unidentifiable emotion behind John’s gaze any longer.  “Is there a difference?”

“You love a sibling, a parent, a good friend.  You’re in love with…”

“Oh…”  _Ridiculous, unnecessary gradations._   “Then yes.”

Silence again.  Prolonged.  John breathing.  The soft whir of the central heating as it clicks on.  Rain pattering against the window opposite.

“Since when?” 

“Since always.”

He looks at John again.  He feels angry.  John should know this, and John should not make him define parameters, especially when he appears to be thoroughly unsettled by the whole prospect.

“Always?”

“Yes,” he snaps.  “Since the day you walked into Bart’s lab with Mike Stamford.  Since the moment you stepped into this flat and looked like you belonged here.  Since you followed me to a crime scene without hesitation, and—and thrilled at my ridiculous deductions, and chatted me up in Angelo’s, yet still allowed me space when I asked for it, and let me lead you in a ridiculous chase across London, and shot and killed a man just to—just to save me from my…”

John kisses him.  He closes the small distance between them, and in one fluid motion cups Sherlock’s face in both of his warm, capable hands and kisses him so full, so slow, so unbearably sweet that everything fades.  

Sensation.  

Warmth.  

Rightness.

John.

It’s a kiss seemingly without end.  Sherlock loses track of time.  

He’s dizzy.  

He’s completely, utterly, fully—quiet.  

Head empty.  Body singing, but slow, steady, like the barely perceptible background hum of an iridescent lightbulb.  Warm.  Comfortable.  

John’s fingers in his hair.  Scalp surprisingly desensitized.  Pleasant, John’s fingers there, tangled, small circles, lazy trails, over his scalp, down the back of his neck.  John’s breath sweet with the slight chalky-mint aftertaste of toothpaste, and the familiar tang that is swiftly becoming something of an addiction. 

John’s lips along his jawline, over his cheekbones, at his temples, against closed eyelids.  John’s fingers at his throat, gliding down to the top button of his shirt, buttons open: one, two, three.  John’s fingers over sensitive flesh, soft, careful.  They, stop, trace a small circle around the spot where a bullet almost took him away permanently, almost denied them both this. 

John pulls back, leaving Sherlock’s lips feeling bereft.  He stares down at his own finger, how it fits perfectly in the small indentation left at the bullet’s entry point.  fingers slide lower.  

Another button.  

Another.  

Sherlock’s shirt hangs open, and John looks up then, looks at him, looks into him, and reaches down, lifts his own shirt off over his head.

_You can stop this any time._

_Why? Why would I want to?_

And John’s eyes never leave his, and he isn’t looking away, not for anything, because John is penning whole love letters with his eyes as he pushes Sherlock’s shirt from his shoulders.  He is painting pictures, writing small histories.  

Sherlock sees flesh, puckered, and pink, an entrance wound, the wound that should have killed John but inexplicably didn’t, that brought John to him, John who is here, who almost feels like his.  

He leans in and presses his lips just above it, in the curve where neck meets ruined shoulder, and he feels John inhale, shuddering, exhale again in a long sigh.

John’s fingers in his hair again.  

Sherlock’s arms slipping around John’s waist, because—closer.  Closer.

“Please…”  

And John lets him push him back against the mattress, curl around him, cling to him like he’s drowning.  Because he is without John, and it terrifies him, and the only thing keeping his head right, even in this moment, in every moment, is John, and John, and more of John.  

Still not enough.  Head tucked against John’s neck, and lips, and hands on John’s skin, and so beautiful, perfect.  And clothes.  _Why are there still clothes?  No clothes.  No._

John seems to understand.  He reaches down, pushes Sherlock’s hands gently away, and squirms out of his pajamas, before turning his attention to Sherlock’s belt and trousers.  He eases them down, and Sherlock lifts his hips to help, manages to get himself out of them somehow.  And yes.  That’s better.  So much skin on skin, and John’s lips everywhere again.  And yet somehow still—still not enough.

“P—pants.”

“Hmm?”  John hums against his neck.

“Pants,” he gasps.  “Off.”

“Sure?” John breathes.

And Sherlock is losing the ability to speak.  Ridiculous question.  Why would he bother utilizing the energy to voice the request if he were unsure.  He reaches down and slides a hand beneath the waistband of John’s pants and John gasps as Sherlock’s hands slips over his arse, pulls him in closer.

John chuckles.

Sherlock pulls back?  “What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“Eager?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow, but John’s lips are twitching as he attempts to suppress a smile.

“Shut up.”

And John does smile then.  There’s something a little wicked in it, and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat.

“Fine.  No pants.”  John reaches down, hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear and eases it down, over his hips, letting his knuckles graze against hipbones as he goes, triggering a gasp and then a moan that Sherlock still can’t recognize as his own.

“You—you…”

“Yeah, hang on.”  John’s tone is fond, but he eases Sherlock off of him for a minute while he fumbles out of his pants.

Sherlock knows that he should take this opportunity to take in everything, every inch of John, every freckle, every scar, every wrinkle, dip, and plane, but all he can think about is close, closer, one.  

The moment John tosses his pants on the floor and rolls back toward him, Sherlock scrambles back on top of him, relishes in the way his cock slots into the crease where John’s thigh meets pelvis, the way he can feel the small puff of breath John giggles against his neck, the way John’s hands slide down his back, hesitate over scar tissue, examine lightly, but keep on moving to settle over the curve of his arse.  

John cants his hips a little, providing some friction, just the right amount.  Perfect.  Yes.  Pleasure bombards Sherlock’s system, nerves firing in all new places, tension coiling in his abdomen, blossoming like bursts of fire over his skin.  Sherlock whimpers.

“Well,” John whispers beneath him, the sound of his voice pulling Sherlock back into awareness.  “This escalated quickly.”

“Shh…” 

John smiles.  cards fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  Fond.  His eyes are fond.  And—and something…  “Not allowed to talk?”

Sherlock blinks down at him, and John tilts his pelvis again, just a little, but, oh—oh!  How…? Sherlock’s eyes slide shut with this new wave of sensation.

“Just one thing, okay.”

Sherlock nods.

“Can you look at me?”

Sherlock does.

The backs of John’s fingers graze lightly over the curve of his arse, sending shivers of pleasure up his spine.  His cock throbs against the warmth of John’s body.  John’s eyes search his, take in every detail of his face, the undeniable flush at his cheeks, the curls he can feel plastered to his forehead with perspiration, the trembling of his lips.

“I love you too, you know,” he finally whispers.  “Always have.  From that very first deduction.”

Sherlock’s vision blurs, throat and chest tighten.

“Come here,” John murmurs, pulls him in, rolls on his side, tangling their limbs, pulling Sherlock’s body flush with his again when they drift apart.  

John is half-hard.  His lips are on Sherlock’s forehead, his finger’s tracing the path of Sherlock’s spine.  Sherlock can taste salt against John’s neck.  Hot.  Wet.  His own tears he realizes with a strange sort of detachment.

He wants.  He needs.  He feels like he is starting to come apart.  His arousal begins to flag, but his desire to keep John close, here—just to _keep_ John—is almost overwhelming.

“You okay?”

He nods because words are utterly impossible now.

John’s arms wrap around him, pull him closer.  He says nothing.  Good.  So good.

It’s still raining outside.  The distant rumble of thunder interrupts the quiet.  It’s late now.  The building is sleeping around them.  

John brushes the hair from his forehead and kisses.  “If you want more, you tell me, okay.”

Sherlock nods again.  He wants _this_.  

He aches.  Reaching a state of arousal so profound without release, twice in such a short duration has taken it’s toll, but he’s experienced orgasms by his own hand.  He can again later, if he chooses.  But this— _this_ —this _whatever it is_ with John, this is something altogether different, something he could never have imagined, certainly something he never anticipated.

Bonding facilitated by oxytocin release, possibly?  So cold.  So purely chemical, physiological.  No.   Something else.  Something deeper.  He makes a mental note to research it later.

“You cold?”  He feels John’s lips brush against his hair as he speaks.

“Hmm…”  Is all he manages in response.

“Here, just…”  John moves away, and he is instantly hit with a wall of cold air.  He huffs in protest, but John is only reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed.  He lays back down, pulling it over them, a cocoon of warmth and security.

Sherlock curls back into place.  

John accepts him without hesitation.


End file.
